I my father and brother
share the neighbouring tombs
My brother and I peek-a-boo
Every night changing
positions of the graves
My father doesn't speak much
he wouldn't even shout on us
not to fight
like he used to do back then
We don't know who
but on every
eighteenth of december
we listen someone sobbing
at our graves and pouring some wine
The plants suck the wine
and
send our share of it
through the roots
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Roots! With the muse of the grave. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.